


A Man of Feeling

by weepingwisteria



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: ambiguous unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1570184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingwisteria/pseuds/weepingwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac really is a romantic and Combeferre is an excellent listener, at least until he catches something he doesn't want to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of Feeling

One day, they didn’t talk about politics. Because Combeferre was sick of politics, for the moment, anyway, sick at heart as he always felt after fruitless argument with people who refused to hear Reason, and Courfeyrac felt sick at heart as well. “What is it?” asked Combeferre, as the group began to disperse. Courfeyrac looked away. Combeferre placed a hand on his elbow and wordlessly led him back to his own lodgings, where he poured cold leftover coffee, sprinkled in a little of his precious sugar and handed it to his guest.

“It’s Caroline,” Courfeyrac sighed. He must have spent a long time working at that, too, the perfect spoken sigh.

“No! Not the divine Caroline!” Combeferre sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, and Courfeyrac sat beside him.

“She betrayed me.”

“Another man?”

“Two other men, at least! God, how could I be so foolish?”

“Well, what did you expect?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Surely you did the same to her.”

“What! Never!” Courfeyrac looked truly horrified. “I don’t know what a libertine like yourself gets up to, but I would never betray the woman I love.”

“Oh.”

“Oh! Combeferre! You think me that low?”

“Well, what about – what was her name? Lise – Lucie–”

“Yes, well, that was after she made off with my watch. I didn’t expect her to turn up again.”

“I see.”

Courfeyrac rearranged himself to lay his head in Combeferre’s lap. His hair was bright and very, very curly.

“Why do I have such terrible luck?” he whimpered.

“Perhaps you make terrible choices.”

“It can’t be that! No, things always go sour, no matter what I do. But you’re right this time, I should have known better. A girl like that – like Caroline – I knew she would be trouble. But she was so lovely, when she talked about her life, when she told me everything she wished she could be! I wanted to help her. All I wanted was to grant her every wish.”

“Well, perhaps you need someone more…”

“Someone who already has all of that?”

“Someone more innocent.”

“Ignorant?”

“Honest.”

“Bourgeoise?”

“Marriageable.”

“I don’t want to repeat what happened with Henriette.”

“Who–? Never mind. Have you tried the lesser nobility?”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Caroline was something better. A princess of the faubourg Saint-Antoine!”

“There are worse things to be.”

“Yes. But you’d think she’d have more sense, living as she did among the hallowed ruins of the Bastille.”

“The fortress cast a long shadow. Long in distance; long in years.” Combeferre said this as if he had been ruminating on it for days.

“But some people find sunshine wherever they go.” Courfeyrac choked back a small sob.

“Oh, stop.” Combeferre clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I mean it, though. I really feel like I might die.”

“It will pass.”

“Combeferre, I loved her. I do love her.”

Combeferre sighed. “I know,” he said gently.

“Do you?” Courfeyrac turned to face upward. “Because no one else seems to believe me when I say it. Not even she did. And she sure as hell didn’t love me. Why? Am I very untrustworthy? Or do I just seem the wrong type for falling in love?”

“I don’t know. But listen, anyone who thinks that can’t be a very good judge of character.”

“Are you being serious now? I can never tell with you.”

“Very serious.” Combeferre placed a hand on his friend’s brow, underneath his hair. “You’re warm. Go home and rest.”

“I’m not. You’re cold. Doesn’t it get cold here at night?”

“I get by.”

Courfeyrac was staring at him. With his eyebrows covered his pale eyes looked unusually round, childlike. “Do you know,” he said, in an abruptly conversational manner, “I wish–” He broke off and the slightest of smiles crept across his face. “I’m about to say something foolish.”

“Most people would stop themselves,” Combeferre pointed out.

“All right. Well, it’s not so bad. I was just going to say, I wish I could find a girl a little more, well, like you.”

Combeferre’s heart skipped a beat. “Like…?”

“Oh, you know. Even-tempered. _Wise_. And – I’m not sure if I’m saying this right – but I feel like you understand me, truly. I don’t need to think about presentation; I never calculate what I say or do around you.”

“Clearly,” Combeferre said briskly. He jerked his knee to one side, causing Courfeyrac to slip.

“Good God! You’re not angry, are you?”

“Of course I’m not.” Combeferre stood.

“You are! There, this is exactly what I was talking about! I can’t even express my friendship for you and be taken seriously!”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I think you have a fever, and you’re behaving irrationally. I think you should go home and rest. Eat something.”

Courfeyrac gaped at him. He was still on the floor.

“Go on,” said Combeferre. “I’ll see you on Saturday. Now, it’s time to go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to ff.net in 2008; edited 2014.


End file.
